


and I will open my heart (and I will, only for you)

by beetle



Series: Twenty Kisses [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Ambassador Dorian Pavus, Backstory, Dorian needs reassurance, F/M, Family Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor Backstory, Light Angst, M/M, Power Bottom Dorian Pavus, Romantic Fluff, Sassy Dorian, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 23:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10707258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Inquisitor Adaar’s received some interesting personal news from the Free Marches, and Ambassador Pavus can’t sleep for all the scowling getting had.Written for prompt number twenty fromthis list of twenty kiss prompts: top of head kisses.





	and I will open my heart (and I will, only for you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAmazingBlue_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAmazingBlue_J/gifts), [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [inbarati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbarati/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU in which Dorian does _not_ need to assume his family’s seat in the Magisterium, and stays on as the Imperium’s ambassador to Orlais after Trespasser. Spoilers for the game.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re doing it _again_ , _Amatus_.”

 

“Hmm. . . ?” Inquisitor Declan Adaar scowled down at the much-creased letter in his hands. As if scowling could solve the problem it presented. He barely noticed his lover rolling over in their bed with a yawn before sitting up. “What’s that, now?”

 

“ _Scowling_ ,” Dorian said disapprovingly, but with another weary yawn as he laid his head on Declan’s bicep. But the yawn was discreet, and tapered of as he wrapped both his arms around Declan’s. “Scowling so loudly I could hear it in my sleep.”

 

“That’s nice, Dorian.”

 

“Are you even listening to me?”

 

Dorian’s suddenly more awake, sharper tone snagged the lion’s share of Declan’s attention from the letter successfully, and he turned red, cursing his pale—for a Qunari, anyway—pinkish-grey complexion. And, after so much time spent on the field in an effort to hasten Corypheus off to dine on his just desserts, not only was Declan’s face ruddier, but the spray of freckles across his narrow-bridged nose had extended to his cheeks.

 

It was bloody annoying. Especially when Dorian, Varric, and Sera had a tendency to point out how young said freckles made him look.

 

“You’re freakin’ _adorable_ , Inquisitor. And not just for a seven-plus-foot tall servant of Andraste,” Varric had said more than once, to Dorian’s amused smirk, Sera’s raucous guffaw, and Cullen’s stifled chuckles. Josephine, diplomat that she was, merely looked pleasantly neutral, while Cassandra tended to huff and scowl, just as Declan did. Sometimes, she even shot that daggers-look at the dwarf, who would always blow her a kiss in return which, amazingly, made the seasoned Seeker blush like a young girl fresh out of a Chantry school.

 

(“I wonder when those two will just _fuck_ , already,” Dorian had mused to Declan in private, recently. His glee had been positively unholy. “Perhaps they already have? If so, I _do_ hope Bianca’s taking it well. Either way, we’re all waiting with bated breath to find out!”

 

Declan had shuddered and made a face. “Speak for yourself, _Kadan_. I could live a thousand eras without knowing what those two may or may not get up to behind closed doors.”

 

“Spoilsport,” Dorian had declared, rolling his canny, dark eyes. Then, he’d proceeded to hustle Declan to their rooms, where they’d made some fun of their own . . . behind closed doors.)

 

Now, those eyes watched Declan with equal parts exasperation and worry. Declan smiled lamely. “Of _course_ , I was listening to you, Dorian. I heard every word you said.”

 

“Indeed?” Dorian’s perfectly-groomed eyebrows lifted incredulously. “Then please, do me the favor of repeating what I just said.”

 

Flushing even more deeply, Declan looked away. Down at the letter, once more, but that didn’t help, only made him scowl again.

 

“You said . . . er . . . something about . . . ah, owls?” Declan guessed hesitantly. The displeased look on Dorian’s face did nothing to reassure him he was guessing correctly. “Loud ones? Disturbing your sleep?”

 

Dorian blinked in annoyed disbelief, then pinched the bridge of his aristocratic nose. “Are you . . . are you _serious_ , Declan?” he demanded.

 

“Possibly? I don’t know?” Declan pasted an apologetic look on his face. When _Dorian’s_ expression grew less pleased than ever—really, for a Tevinter mage, the man absolutely _loathed_ lies and omissions, fibs and falsehoods . . . and that was one of many things Declan loved about Dorian: that he lived his truth and followed its path bravely, and with his whole heart—he sighed and let his face settle back into its usual, somewhat grim expression. “Alright, you’ve caught me. I’m utterly distracted. And while I wasn’t _ignoring_ what you said, I’m afraid I wasn’t listening with both ears. But,” he added, leaning down to kiss the top of Dorian’s head and freeing his arm to wrap it around Dorian’s shoulders. When the other mage relaxed reluctantly in his arms, Declan hummed. “I am now. Listening, that is. So, what’s wrong, Ambassador Pavus?”

 

“I believe you’ve stolen my line, Inquisitor Adaar,” Dorian murmured, laying his head on Declan’s chest, over the steady, slow beat of his heart. His hand came up to settle on Declan’s sternum, just above his abdomen, and the hard, defined muscles thereof. “Whatever’s in that letter you’ve been worrying over for the past three days has you tossing in your sleep, muttering and grumbling, and barely eating on the rare occasion you stop your ceaseless working to do so. And considering just how much energy you expend in the course of your day, that’s . . . worrisome to me.”

 

Frowning down at Dorian’s slightly mussy, sienna hair, Declan held the letter up. It was written in Qunlat—which Declan could read and speak, thanks to his _Tal Vashoth_ mother’s rather bowdlerized teachings of the tongue. Though, of course, without context for certain things—things in which The Iron Bull was more than happy to school him, such as the complexities of Qunari profanity, idiom, and slang, as well as history and culture—in some ways, it had been like learning Qunlat in a vacuum. And until the Inquisition, he’d only spoken it with three other people under limited and controlled circumstances. . . .

 

“Dorian,” Declan murmured when the other mage reached up as if to take the letter. But he merely brushed his fingers along the surface of the creased parchment.

 

“What does it say, _Amatus_?” he asked, turning his face up toward Declan’s, wide gray eyes meeting ice-blue. He no longer seemed annoyed, merely . . . concerned. And that concern, that _caring_ , from someone as . . . glib and self-centered as Dorian could be, still took Declan’s breath away. It instantly crumbled his resistance to relating the contents of the letter to his lover. And, anyway, it wasn’t as if Dorian wouldn’t find out—sooner, rather than later, too. “For I would not see you worry so, alone.”

 

Declan smiled a little. “A burden shared is a burden halved, is that it?”

 

Dorian’s return smile was fleeting, wistful. “Something like that . . . so, whom, might I ask, sent you this disturbing missive?”

 

Sighing, Declan looked at the letter again, before handing it to Dorian, who took it carefully, brow furrowing as he squinted at the Qunlat symbols, written in a firm, but graceless hand.

 

“It was sent by Evra Adaar . . . my mother.” Off Dorian’s in-drawn breath, Declan pointed to the blocky symbols at the top-right of the letter. Then he moved his finger to the left corner. “And, see, there?” he said quietly, pointing out the salutation. “That is _attas shokra_ . . . a greeting among the Qunari. It means _glorious struggle_.”

 

“Hmm,” was Dorian’s reply, though Declan had expected something rather smart-alecky in response. Surprised, he hurried on.

 

“And there, below that, is my name and title. Below _that_ , it says:

 

> _The family struggles to thrive in your long absence. You are missed._
> 
> _We still grieve for Hizzera’s loss. Every year, on the anniversary of her death, Kravek and Hannae make the journey to Kirkwall to pay their respects and join the other mourners who gather to rememeber their beloved and honored dead._
> 
> _Though I had initially discouraged Kravek from taking one so young on such a long, perilous journey, he continues to do it, insisting that Hannae is as strong and capable as Hizzera was. Not that strength and capability did her very much good, ultimately._
> 
> _This year, however, upon their return from Kirkwall, Hannae insisted on making the journey to Skyhold to see you, stating that she is bored of the Free Marches and tired of living a . . . “sheltered life” in our small hamlet. Furthermore, she says she has no intentions of following in either her mother’s or my footsteps, choosing to become neither a mercenary or a healer. She has expressed an interest in . . . joining the Inquisition as a cleric, perhaps in your service._
> 
> _There is no talking her around on this. I have tried. Kravek has tried and given up—fallen into the silence that nearly consumed him when news of Hizzera’s death was delivered. I expect that within a fortnight of receiving this letter, Hannae will arrive on your doorstep. Though we have not given her our blessing to leave, it is only a matter of time, and very little of it, before she steals away in the night, like Hizzera did—like you did—to find her place in this world._
> 
> _Kravek and I ask only that you look after her and keep her as safe as you may. Even more than she is here, Hannae is safe at the side of the Inquisitor. And perhaps she will, at last, be happy, somewhere other than here._
> 
> _It is hoped that after recent events, this letter finds you speedily. It is also hoped that you are well and thriving under the burden of responsibility which you bear. It is further hoped that you know you carry the love and pride of the family wherever you go and whatever you do._
> 
> _Take refuge in safety,_
> 
> _Evra Adaar, Your Mother_

 

When Declan’s index finger trailed off after “Mother,” his hand dropped away from the letter. Dorian stared at it for several seconds longer before folding it and handing it back to Declan. The Inquisitor held it for a few moments more, before placing it on his night table, next to the flickering lamp.

 

“Who are Kravek, Hannae, and Hizzera?” Dorian asked gently, Declan glanced at his lover and smiled.

 

“Kravek is my father. Hannae is my niece. And Hizzera is— _was_ my older sister. Hannae’s mother.” Declan swallowed around the lump he always got in his throat when thinking of the sibling he’d idolized from before he could walk. “She . . . died during the Kirkwall Rebellion. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time—or so we presume, since she was last seen not far from the Chantry just after it exploded—and not even fighting for one side or the other, Mages or Templars. She was, so her captain said, simply visiting a friend on her way back to see our parents, Hannae, and me.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Hannae was so _young_ , when Hizzera went to the Maker . . . Hell, _I_ was so young. Barely had enough peach-fuzz to qualify as a beard. But at least . . . at least I _remember_ her clearly. Remember how big and bright her laugh was, and how merry and fearless her manner. How _warm_. Hannae remembers none of that. Hizzera left her with our parents before she was toddling.”

 

Declan fell silent for a few minutes, Dorian resting against him and under his arm peaceably and unusually quiet—especially for _Dorian_ —he kissed his lover’s crown again, inhaling the gentle, familiar, clean-soap and Chantry-incense scent of his skin and hair.

 

Dorian sighed, too, kissing the spot over Declan’s heart, lingering for the space of several steady beats.

 

“And what will you do when your niece arrives on the Inquisition’s doorstep, all bright-eyed and pointy-horned? Will you send her back to the Free Marches, and your parents?” he murmured on Declan’s skin, causing a tingling frisson to radiate throughout Declan’s being. No one—no lover—had ever caused such a feeling with a simple kiss. “Will you fob her off on some mid-level cleric—or perhaps Mother Giselle—to keep her out of trouble?”

 

Mystified, Declan frowned as Dorian sat back to look up at him curiously. “I . . . of course, not! Why would I do that?”

 

Dorian’s brows shot up once more. “For one thing, nepotism is all well and good until one has to deal _face-to-face_ with one’s family. For another, what makes one’s nieces or nephews delightful is when, at the end of a long and lovely day, _they go back home_. And for a third thing . . . you’re the _Inquisitor, Amatus_.” The smile that curved Dorian’s mobile mouth was both wry and fond. “You haven’t got time to _eat a proper meal_ —don’t think I haven’t noticed that, and that your clothes are practically falling off you, lately—let alone time to babysit an awkward, eager-to-prove-herself, trouble-bringing teenager!”

 

Declan groaned. That’d been exactly what he’d been telling himself for the past three days, but . . . hearing it said aloud, his anxiety crumbled and a new resolve was born in its place, already hardened and immovable. Hannae, though a veritable stranger, almost, after so much time apart, was still _family_. Still the little auburn-haired girl who’d followed Declan around like an awe-struck puppy till the day he’d left home.

 

“I’ll _make_ the time,” he told Dorian solemnly another stark realization hitting him like a cannonball and making the path he must follow clear and inevitable. And as he accepted that inevitability, his mind and heart were at last settled on the matter. He even smiled as he wondered what his cohorts would make of Hannae—and she of them. “She’s one of only four people in the world I love. And if I can’t make time for her—for _you_ —then what good am I to you?”

 

Dorian’s smile turned wistful once more. “ _Plenty_ good, or have you forgotten sealing the Breach, already?” he chuckled, reaching up to cup Declan’s face in his strong, callused, but gentle hands. “And you make plenty of _time_ for me, too, Declan. Perhaps more than you should, considering how precious that time is these days, and how frequently I’m away.”

 

“Even if it meant forgoing sleep altogether, I would make time for you, heart of my heart. It's _absence_ makes the heart grow fonder, after all. And appreciate those longed-for moments of togetherness.”

 

Dorian snorted. “You only say that because you haven’t yet had a chance to grow disillusioned and take me for granted.”

 

“That will never happen. Not to me. Not to _us_.” Declan smiled again, serene and certain. “You are my _miracle_ , Dorian Pavus. The Maker’s greatest gift to me—not this damned mark on my hand. And the more of you I have, the more of you I want. It will _ever_ be thus. Nothing can change that.”

 

Dorian’s cheeks flushed a fetching pink and he averted his gaze for a few moments. “You don’t have to say that, Declan. The fact is, most of the year is spent apart, for us: me, in Val Royeaux, and you, wherever the Inquisition takes you. And that’s . . . not exactly what either of us would choose for our relationship. There may come a time when you weary of the distance that’s so often between us. When you weary of a lover you’re lucky to see for eight weeks out of the year. When you weary of . . . _me_. . . .”

 

Declan shook his head once, slowly, so as not to dislodge Dorian’s hands. “Never happen.”

 

“You mustn’t tempt fate, beloved.” Dorian sighed, then arranged his face in its usual knowing smirk. “The future is _not_ ours to see.”

 

“Perhaps not. But one thing will _always_ be true, _Kadan_.” Turning his face a little to kiss Dorian’s right palm, Declan held that darker, slightly guilty—more than _slightly_ uncertain—gaze. “ _You_ are the one thing I’ve ever wanted for myself, Dorian. The only thing I’ve ever allowed myself to have and _keep_. When I fought Corypheus and sealed the breach, I wasn’t doing that for the Maker or Andraste or Thedas. I wasn’t even doing it for my family . . . for the parents who worked so hard to give me and my sister a good life, or the niece for whom I would _still_ lay down my life, if called, no . . . I did it for _you_. _Only_ for you.” Searching Dorian’s startled, vulnerable eyes, Declan smiled hopefully, haplessly. “I may not be able to give you the world—which is no more than you deserve—but I thought _saving it_ for you was the next best thing. And, anyway, I hear it’s the thought that counts when giving loved ones gifts.”

 

Dorian sat, gobsmacked, for nearly a minute before grinning, wide and unrestrained—no traces of glibness or cleverness in sight, just pure, earnest joy.

 

 _This_ was the Dorian that no one, but _Declan,_ got to see. And the more he saw of that Dorian, the more he loved the man: in part and in whole.

 

“It is, indubitably, the thought that counts when giving gifts. And I must say, you’ve certainly chosen _well_. No one’s ever given me an _entire world_ , before, and I am, indeed, flattered,” Dorian added in a low, tender murmur, his warm hands sliding up Declan’s face, to his temples, thence up along Declan’s long, curving, bronzed horns for as high as he could reach. Not for a moment did he break eye-contact, holding Declan’s gaze until the warmth and fondness that shone out of his eyes—and the rest of him—became something harder. Something more _heated_ , than warm. “Why, I won’t even sneak out and return this gift behind your back!”

 

“Well. You’re not the only one who’s feeling flattered, then,” Declan admitted, leaning down until his forehead touched Dorian’s and the other man’s hands slid down to the back of Declan’s head, fingers following the twists and turns of neat cornrows the precise color of banked embers. Shivering, Declan nuzzled Dorian’s nose. “Have I told you lately how deeply I _adore_ you, _Kadan_?”

 

“Hmm . . . not within the past ninety minutes, no,” was the arch reply, followed by a pouting: “I’m feeling _woefully_ under-appreciated.”

 

“Are you?” Declan’s threw back the linens, then his big, rough hands settled on Dorian’s trim waist, tight and possessive. With an ease that always made Dorian gasp—this time was no different—he lifted the other man up, only setting him down when he’d rearranged Dorian so that those long, perfectly-sculpted thighs were straddling his own. Only then, did Declan allow his hands to slide around to lightly grip Dorian’s gloriously round arse. “ _Have_ I been neglecting you, dearest?”

 

“Well,” Dorian demurred coquettishly, his hands dropping from Declan’s horns to grip Declan’s _wrists_ , his eyes flashing and flickering like scorched quartz left in the flames. With encouraging squeezes, the Tevinter mage urged Declan to do a bit more than _lightly grip_. Then he all but purred when the grip turned to a _grasp_ , then to clenching and kneading. “It’s been almost a _full_ _day_ since you last bent me over the nearest piece of sturdy furniture and had your relentless way with me. _A day_. And you know that if I should _stop_ walking funny, well, soon, the servants will start to gossip that you’ve grown _bored_ of your pet Blood Mage.”

 

“Hmm . . . can’t have _that_ , now, can we?” Declan’s question was rhetorical, and before Dorian could even agree, that agreement was kissed from his lips. And kissed. And kissed some more, until neither man could remember much of the previous conversation.

 

Dorian tasted sweet, earthy, and tart, like the Tevinter wines Declan always saw to it were stocked by the kitchen. The smooth skin of his back and arse were lovely, silken territory, rendered both familiar and addictive by time and repeated samplings. And the damp, urgent thrust of his pretty, circumcised—such strange folk, those Tevinter were . . . an odd and captivating mix of heathen ritual and refined elegance that fascinated Declan and always had—prick against Declan’s abdomen gave credence to Dorian’s teasing-serious complaint about the day-long hiatus of their sex-life.

 

And so, it wasn’t long before Dorian had urged Declan to lie down, then sprawled atop him, grinding and shimmying against him sinuously. His eyes were smoldering and hungry, his grip on Declan’s pinned wrists tight and strong. For a human, anyway. But it was nothing Declan couldn’t get out of if he wanted to.

 

(He did _not_ want to.)

 

“Am I expected to . . . _inquisit_ you, pinned to our bed as I am, oh, fearsome Altus?” he inquired dryly. Dorian’s smirk was wicked, indeed.

 

“No . . . you’re expected to lie there and _take it_ , my dear _Vashoth_ apostate.”

 

“Hmm . . . and _what_ , exactly would I be taking?” Declan asked, his own brows drifting up toward his horns even as his eyes ticked down to where their bodies met: at groin-level, as was so often the case. Dorian’s smirk deepened—turned downright _evil_.

 

“Why, whatever I chose to give you, Inquisitor.”

 

“Which would be. . . ?”

 

“Mm, my hand, at first,” Dorian mused, kissing Declan’s collar bone. His eyes were sparkling and covetous. “Then perhaps my mouth, if you’re a very good little Herald. And then. . . .”

 

“ _And then_?” Declan was helpless but to play along with Dorian’s teasing . . . as ever he had been. Just listening to Dorian imply and innuendo was enough to make Declan hard. When Dorian _flat-out told_ Declan what he meant to do in plain language, well . . . Declan found that those times, thinking was not his forte.

 

“And then, I’m going to get you harder than you’ve ever been in your life. _Then_ , I’m going to fuck myself _raw_ on that fifth appendage you call a prick, until I come. _Twice_. And _you_ ,” he declared smugly, his eyes twinkling brighter than ever, “are _not_ allowed to come _at all_ until _I’m_ too tired to ride you anymore. Then, of course, you’re free to roll me over and split me like a cord of wood, as per usual.”

 

Declan snorted a laugh and captured Dorian’s lips again, losing himself for long minutes in earthy sweetness and tart-grape notes. “Sounds like a plan,” he whispered, panting, then stole another long, deep kiss that Dorian chuckled into, reaching for his night table and the jar of sweet-scented oil in the top drawer.

 

And silence reigned for a time, but for Declan’s grunts and Dorian’s gasps . . . Dorian’s moans and Declan’s groans.

 

And a longer span, still, passed, before Dorian—covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair a sodden mess clinging to his forehead, and his body shaking in the wake of his second orgasm and trembling on the cusp of a _third_ —composed himself enough to look into Declan’s pale eyes with bleary, dazed, wondering ones.

 

He was indescribably beautiful like this.

 

“For me?” he asked, his voice hoarse from shouting and calling on the Maker, Andraste, and Declan in equal measures. “ _Only_ for _me_?”

 

“Yes, _Kadan_ ,” Declan promised breathlessly, his hands clamped tight around Dorian’s waist as he lifted the other man up off his prick almost entirely, then slammed him back down hard, at the same time as he bucked up. Dorian’s soft, submissive whimper of pained pleasure drew a growl from Declan’s throat. Without a second thought, he rolled them over, pushing Dorian’s shapely legs up and out, lining himself up quickly, and driving his hips forward again, into tight, _perfect_ heat that fluttered and twitched and contracted around him—tried to hold him in. Dorian threw his head back and cried out as he came again, spattering Declan’s abdomen and stomach, and his own, with his release.

 

Declan, freed to chase his _own_ climax, did so without giving any quarter. He thrusted and withdrew repeatedly: sharp, claiming strokes into Dorian’s willing, unresisting flesh . . . over and over and over, until time, along with everything else that _wasn’t_ necessary to this primal dance, ceased to exist.

 

But eventually, Declan's hard-fought battle for control was finally lost and, with a roar, he came, his heavier, denser body pinning and pushing Dorian’s into their mattress. . . .

 

When Declan regained some of his sense, he merely lay, panting, his face buried in the hollow junction between Dorian’s neck and shoulder. His entire world was the familiar, soap-incense-clean sweat scent that meant _Dorian_. “Oh, _Kadan_. . . .”

 

A soft, sleepy snort greeted this breathless endearment, and Declan finally levered his delightfully leaden body off the other man’s, the apology on his lips turning to a surprised, but quiet chuckle.

 

Dorian was, despite his lover’s full, dead-heavy weight, fast asleep, snoring almost delicately, his damp hair sprayed all over his forehead and the pillow, his neck, shoulders, and chest covered with new and old love-bites.

 

Declan grinned smugly, yawning as he rolled off Dorian, then shifted them both into their preferred sleeping positions: Dorian the little spoon to Declan’s big spoon.

 

“Only for you, my heart,” Declan murmured, nuzzling the other man’s sweaty nape and kissing his shoulder. Then he reached over his slumbering, snoring lover to turn down the lamp. By its faint light, Dorian was burnished rose-gold.

 

In less than three hours, Declan would be struggling awake again—well before dawn, thanks to his internal clock and inherited work-ethic—eating only part of his breakfast while trying to figure out how to save the world for yet another day. And in less than a fortnight, there’d be the not inconsiderable matter of his _niece_ —whom he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade—arriving at Skyhold, no doubt expecting intrigue and adventure around every corner in the heart of the Inquisition.

 

(And between the two events, any of a million real and make-work problems. The life of the Inquisitor was endlessly busy, indeed: long on work and short on everything else.)

 

But for _now_ . . . _for now_ , Declan had never been more in love.

 

Smiling, he watched Dorian sleep until his own eyes could no longer prop themselves open. The last thing he knew before sleep claimed him, was Dorian’s scent, snores, and the pliant firmness of his warm, beloved body. “ _Only_ for you.”

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Say "hi!" on [Tumblr](beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
